


A Bit of Chalk

by Plenoptic



Category: The Borgias (2011)
Genre: Drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cesare doesn't pretend to understand Machiavelli, but it's not that he isn't prepared to try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Bit of Chalk

**Author's Note:**

> This is nothing. *shrugs*
> 
> Julian Bleach and Francois Arnaud are the best.

For the few tumultuous months they had known one another, Cesare had yet to see Machiavelli angry. He had yet to see any emotion in the other man beyond cool apathy; Machiavelli regarded everything from Savonarola’s rantings to the sight of a woman burned at the stake the same way—with a slightly raised brow and a little “hm” noise that communicated only the barest amount of interest. At first Cesare had thought it was a ruse, a mask—he knew better than anyone that Italian politics must be met with unwavering stoicism. He had thought himself very good at disguising his emotions, but he was a hysterical woman compared to Machiavelli’s patented blend of sarcasm and blatant disinterest.

And the more time they spent together, the more Cesare began to think it wasn’t just an act. Perhaps Machiavelli really was bored with everything under the sun.

That was too bad, Cesare mused to himself. A pity, really, but he had yet to meet a genius who wasn’t utterly disillusioned by life among mere mortals. The Borgia prince stretched his arms over his head, ignoring the crooning of a few passing courtesans. The Tuscan sun was bright and merry, and Florence’s people were in their usual good cheer—did nothing dampen this city’s spirits?—providing a pleasant backdrop to Cesare’s aimless wanderings. He liked the time he spent in Florence—he missed Lucrezia but he did not miss his father and the college of cardinals, and even less did he miss the sordid, weeping sore that was the city of Rome. He and Micheletto and Machiavelli had passed many a pleasant evening on the balcony with a bottle of wine (the only commodity, besides books, that the Florentine diplomat kept in abundance), and during those gentle hours Cesare did not feel the weight of his many responsibilities. His burdens were leagues and leagues away, festering in Rome. And good riddance.

He was just wondering how much a summertime palazzo in Florence might cut into his purse when he turned the corner and stopped with one foot in midair. Machiavelli was crouched on his front doorstep, his sleeves hiked up his arms, elbow-deep in a bucket of soapy water, muttering to himself and lifting a sponge to scrub furiously at a large chalk cross etched on his door.

Cesare lowered his foot slowly, watching the scene with interest. Machiavelli seemed—irritated. Somewhat against his better judgement, he approached his—friend? acquaintance? tepid ally?—and linked his arms behind his back, looking up at the door.

“Savonarola’s urchins?”

“Useless little pissants”—Machiavelli didn’t so much speak as bite his sentence apart between his clenched teeth. Cesare schooled a smile into a stoic grimace. “Plague upon this city. Heaven and hell _indeed_ —”

“It’s just a bit of chalk.”

“Just a bit of—” Machiavelli turned and looked at Cesare with what one could only describe as incredulity, and Cesare was fascinated by the unexpected expressiveness of the other man’s features. “This is my _father’s_ house! How would you feel if a ratty gang of ignorant children marked up your father’s house with crosses?”

“My father’s house is already marked with crosses.”

Machiavelli fell silent at that, staring at Cesare blankly, and then he abruptly began to laugh, dropping the sponge and putting a wet hand to his forehead. Cesare grinned and picked up the sponge, attacking the last remaining cross.

“Oh, Christ. Apologies, Eminence—I didn’t expect—you have a sharp wit.”

“So I’ve been told,” Cesare said somewhat smugly. He stepped back to admire his work, nodding. “There. Your father’s door is quite free of ignorance now.” He picked up the bucket and emptied the contents into the street, watching the muddy little river. “Was your father not a man of strong faith?”

Machiavelli snorted. “I am, for better or for worse, very much his son. Take that as you will. What occupies your time today, Eminence?”

“I thought I would go listen to the good friar Savonarola.”

“Fuck Savonarola,” Machiavelli said, and Cesare turned to look at him in surprise. “How would you like to meet some of the most beautiful girls in all of Tuscany?”

Cesare didn’t know what to say to that. After a moment’s pondering, he lifted an eyebrow. “I shouldn’t think Micheletto would like to come along.”

Machiavelli barked a laugh. “Just us two, then. Come, Eminence. Just for a while, to forget our fathers and their respective crosses.”

Cesare couldn’t argue with that. Machiavelli locked his front door and linked his hands behind his back, setting off down the street, and Cesare tagged along after him, grinning.

“Where are we going, _Signor_ Machiavelli?”

“Ah, ah. Patience is a virtue, so they say.”

“I’ve never quite grasped the concept of virtue itself.”

“Really? I could write a treatise on the subject. Perhaps I shall. Consider, Eminence, the archetypical prince, perhaps not so unlike yourself…”


End file.
